I am trying to get back into the swing of writing after a busy week.  Last time I seriously wrote anything was a week ago.  It was a good day though, I think I wrote something around 5,000 words.  I keep reminding myself though that it isn’t about word count and it isn’t about page count.  I am doing this because I need to.  It isn’t about quantitative measures.  It is about my internal need to write.  It is about my love of words.  It is about having to get a story out of me that is dying to be born.

I sit here at my desk, trying to discover more of the story I have to write.  I have been neglecting it and hiding it in the corner of my mind.  It is a weird sensation–fear of your own imagination.  I feel like my story is supposed to be much darker than I have been writing.  There are parts that have come out recently and I am thinking I need to take it even farther.  It is almost as though the two stories I have written are intertwining.  I don’t know if I should go that way, or if I should keep them separate.  Maybe this is why author’s suggest NOT to write more than one story at a time.  I can’t help it though.  There is something that seems to be just out of reach that I am supposed to be including in my story.

It is comparable to how I have felt when I have been out the two nights this last week.  Here is the typical scenario that happens when I was out.  I get super excited to see people and because of that excitement, I cannot put my thoughts together and I talk about crazy ass shit.  I get so wrapped up in my own head and my own feelings about what is going on around me that it expresses itself in odd ways.  I get these ideas in my head that I have to get out of me–whether in conversation or in writing.  It is much easier for me to get it out in writing, but apparently, with these ideas I keep having–the outcome in writing is just as obscure.  I won’t get into it on here, because as River Song always says, “Spoilers.”